


The Merry Dance

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 03:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: The bellow echoes off the concrete, reverberating throughout the bunker in tandem with the colossal bang of the doors smashing open and bouncing against the walls. It's predictable, almost musical.





	The Merry Dance

**The Merry Dance**

* * *

“GRACE!”

The bellow echoes off the concrete, reverberating throughout the bunker in tandem with the colossal bang of the doors smashing open and bouncing against the walls. It’s predictable, almost musical.

“Good morning, grumpy,” she says, emerging from her office and treating him to a sunny smile. Technically, it’s not really his fault he’s in such a bad mood, and she might even go so far as saying she feels a tad sorry for him. So for that reason she chooses not to react to his apparent ire.

Boyd storms across the wide open plan space, only stopping in his tracks about a foot from her. Hands on his hips he stares, his scowl morphing to something much milder but still not quite a smile as he looks down and she looks up. “I am not grumpy,” he announces, “I’m caffeine deficient.”

“Oh, well then,” soothes Grace, hiding her amusement, “that’s something we can fix.”

“Can we fix it now?” he asks, and it’s almost, almost a whine, a beg.

“We can.” Taking pity on him she flicks the switch in the kettle she filled after she arrived, anticipating his mood. It really isn’t his fault, and she possesses enough self-awareness to know that in his shoes, she’d be ratty too. “Tea, or coffee?”

She knows the answer but gives him the choice anyway. It’ll help.

“Tea, please.”

Simple black tea – Twining’s English Breakfast – times two. A little milk, no sugar in either.

The perfect fix, every time.

After so many years she knows this tune as well as she knows herself. Can feel the rhythm around them as easily as she breathes.

He subsides onto her office sofa after closing the door behind her; no outside sound, nothing sharing their time in this moment.

Grace hands over a mug, considers him quietly as she settles beside him, back pressed into the corner to let her see his face, the set of his shoulders.

It’s like reading an old, favourite book she’s thumbed through a thousand times or more.

Silently she inhales steam, smiles wryly to herself when she realises that yet again she’s forgotten to remove her glasses and now she can’t see.

Boyd spots her predicament. Laughs and removes them for her. Allows his fingertips to graze across her cheek. “You never learn, do you?”

Grace considers him, draws her response out. Watches as he produces a handkerchief, polishes to his exacting level of perfection. Leaves him with only an indistinct, “Sometimes”.

An eyebrow quirks in response but she gives him nothing more. At home she’d touch him, maybe. Perhaps even kiss him. Not here though. Here she leaves his brain to tick, to sift through hidden meanings.

It’s good for him. He needs it. For added confusion she curls her legs beneath her on the sofa, sinks further into her corner as she sips. Allows the barest hint of a crooked grin that only the corner of his eye catches. When the full power of his gaze rakes over her face she is serene, steady. Giving away nothing.

His brain is ticking, searching. Obsessing over her tiny clues.

He’s almost on her level, but not quite. He knows it too. Enjoys it.

“Just how much of a prick was Williams, then?” she asks, derailing him instantaneously. He hides his groan at her tactics, playing her back as best he can. Answers instead with the truth about his meeting with the oily department manager they currently need information from.

Talk continues, ranges across topics and emotions, and once more she offers that hint of a crooked smirk only to tuck it away the second his eyes flicker back to hers. The third time she’s tempted she stops herself; better to leave him wondering, his thoughts fixating on the difference between imagination and truth.

It’s just a tea break though, and inevitably the mugs run dry. Boyd stares into his for a moment as they slowly stand, then pins her with his eyes.

“When are you going to marry me?”

It’s not a new question but still her heart speeds up a little, still her skin prickles with warmth.

“When the stars align,” Grace replies, entirely truthful.

He moves right, she moves left. They turn, still facing. Still perfectly in step.

“You’re leading me on a merry dance, wench,” growls Boyd, his tone the furthest thing from malice. Not for a second does she think he’s talking about this very moment, now. 

The acceptance in him warms her blood, the perfectly hidden excitement thrills her. Only his eyes give it away, and only to her.

For her.

“Am I?”

“You know damn well that you are.”

That crooked smile again, flickering across her face for a mere half a heartbeat.

Hazel eyes narrow, but he holds his position. “Tell me, oh infuriating woman of mine, do the stars propose to allow you to dine with me tonight?”

Grace closes her eyes briefly, as if listening hard, as if concentrating on something barely tangible. “I believe they do, yes.”

A hand hovers in mid-air before her, large and inviting. Resting her slim fingers in his she feels the warmth, the security of his grip as he raises her hand to his lips, bestowing a tiny kiss before lifting higher, twirling her around, just once and with perfect balance, elegance.

This time she moves right and he moves left and then together they incline their heads.

“Seven thirty,” Grace poses, “I’ll let you pick the location.”

Boyd pauses, looks as though he will stare her down, and then yields. They both know he’s enjoying her game. Their game.

“Vexatious wench,” is his parting mutter, as he backs out of the room without having to look behind him, his gaze never leaving hers.

Grace holds her position until he’s out of sight, that warmth now a heated thrill that’s streaking through her. It’s so easy. It’s so fun.

It’s so... rewarding.

Sitting down in her chair she looks at the two mismatched mugs left on the edge of her desk. Theirs and theirs alone since day one of the CCU. Hers is scratched and his has a tiny chip missing. They sit there, side by side, touching. Waiting.

One day she will give in to him. One day.

Until then, though, she will continue to dance.


End file.
